


The Reluctant Alpha

by General_Button



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha!Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Brief Mystrade, Consensual, M/M, Omega!John, Omegaverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 01:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Button/pseuds/General_Button
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I trust you. Trust <i>me</i>.”</p><p>In which Sherlock is a reluctant alpha.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Reluctant Alpha

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morfiantra](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=morfiantra).



> A big thank you to those who encouraged me! While I work on the Ao3 Auction fic, this is a gift for morfiantra who just deserves all the love. Her cosplay is amazing <3

Occasionally John thought about Irene; one of the few women whose faces he would never forget. Occasionally he would be reminded of the curl of her mouth and the gentle sexiness of her smile—how that smile was directed at Sherlock. She was not your usual omega, certainly, and for some reason she had found something equally unique in Sherlock. 

There had been a particular ease about their relationship. She appreciated Sherlock, and for all he pretended not to care, she had been the first omega he had ever taken an active interest in. He had mourned her, for Christ’s sake. For all he knew of the details and how they treated each other, they could have been having sex when he wasn’t around.

John frowned into his cup, the liquid reflecting the Telly’s flickering glow.  


He looked at Sherlock. Sherlock, who claimed he didn’t have a heart. Sherlock, who had only once, as far as John knew, let love affect his decisions. John was aware that Sherlock cared about him—there was evidence of that (he often thought about his panicked shout during the scene at Irene’s home), but their relationship had been fairly straightforward ever since their beginning. Sherlock deduced, and John praised. Second in command. Yes, Sherlock, no Sherlock. Follow his movements and react. Protect. He was important—more important than Irene.

Yet, as if on an interminable loop, his mind supplied the expression on Irene’s face at the warehouse; the way Sherlock had stormed away. The beautiful music, and the way Sherlock had stared at her phone, masking everything John  _knew_  he felt. Or thought he knew.

John wasn’t exactly sure where it had begun. Maybe since the day he had walked in and Sherlock had screamed ‘Alpha’. Maybe the moment when Sherlock had touched his face during the case with the Chinese gang, cupping his cheeks and willing him to  _remember_ , and John couldn’t do anything but stare at his alien face against the glare of the moon.

It was obvious to himself, now that he thought about it, that he was jealous. Jealous of Irene and anyone to have taken his attention. He was jealous that that attention had not been aimed at him. 

John chanced a glance at Sherlock, who was staring at the television with obvious repulse. Some kind of game show was on, one that Sherlock tolerated only because of John (who swore he secretly enjoyed it). 

On average, John went through one bottle of perfume a month. It covered the scent of his sex, naturally attractive even when he was off heat. It wasn’t that John pretended he wasn’t an omega; as Sherlock had said, anyone with half a brain could tell. No, he just didn’t really like the attention. Getting approached by alphas was common for the average omega. When he was close to heat it was hard not to be flattered, but he’d rather be left alone until he found someone of his volition. 

Usually John managed to find someone to spend heat with if he was up for it. A glorious few days of fucking and lazing until he felt like he could die from the bliss of it. There was nothing quite like a good heat with a caring Alpha. John didn’t do it every time, and if he didn’t his sister would take him in and provide all sorts of toys with a snigger and a comment about ‘that tall handsome bloke’ he lived with. 

Sherlock never said one thing about his heats, or the fact that he was an omega. Oh, he’d made the obligatory comment here and there, but he never realised he was doing it half the time (it didn’t stop John from shouting at him). John had no idea how he  _really_  felt about omegas or his own kind. He had ever experienced an omega in heat? Did he know what the powerful secretion of pheromones smelled like?

When was he going to wake up one day and find an omega like Irene that he could tolerate? Where would John be then?

“I think I’ll head to bed after a shower,” John announced, his tea by that point cold. Sherlock’s eyes settled on him, sharp and intrusive, and then he shrugged and turned away. John left him there and hopped into the shower. Before he did, he snatched the scentless body soap and dumped out the contents of his half-empty perfume bottle into the toilet. 

* * *

John stared at the mirror the next morning for over half an hour, stalling for time. 

He almost immediately regretted throwing out his cocoon of safety as soon as he had done it. John was tempted to run and find some bubbly, flower-scented body wash, only just he forced himself to resist. If was going to do this, there was no turning back. 

Well, he could always turn tail and run, but then John would feel awful about himself. There was nothing to be afraid of. Sherlock was just Sherlock. He was a handsome alpha that seemed to hold no interest in sex or bonding, but he was one all the same. Maybe he just hadn’t approached John because he didn’t want to ruin their relationship. 

John splashed water over his face, growing flush against the heat of his thoughts, confined space, and bright lights. He just needed to walk downstairs and act normal; not like he was letting his true scent through for the first time since their relationship began. 

Dedicated to that thought, John marched down the stairs, his heart pounding, and saw Sherlock sitting at the table peering into his microscope. 

“You’re late this morning,” was his immediate comment. John settled into routine and went to make some tea, deliberately brushing by Sherlock. He saw Sherlock’s head snap up and grabbed the kettle. 

“How long did you sleep, exactly?” 

“Three hours, approximately. Plenty of time to—”

“You know what,” John interrupted cheerfully. “I don’t think I need a teabag. Just some tea leaves and your eyes.” John pressed one finger just under Sherlock’s eye, poking the deep bags.

Sherlock did not flinch, nor did he look impressed. “Sleep consumes precious time. The investigation requires constant surveillance. They’ll never solve it in time without my help.” 

John turned on the stove. “They’ve survived for years without you, Sherlock.  _Years,_ can you believe it?” He snorted. “They’ll survive a couple of hours. If you don’t sleep, you’ll eventually collapse.” 

Now that he had an objective in mind, John had never felt so aware of Sherlock’s presence. He made no attempts to hide his scent, and while John was used to his own scent to where he didn’t notice it, Sherlock didn’t have the same luxury. He turned and walked into the living room to sit in his designated chair. He simply needed to wait for the moment when he would say something. 

Yet despite his expectations, it remained quiet until the kettle went off, the high pitched squeal causing John to jump in his seat.

“Tea. You know how I like it,” said Sherlock, his voice a quiet rumble. John wondered what it sounded like mid-fuck and stood up with an abruptness that was alarming. 

“Make your own damn tea,” John groused, but pulled out a second mug for Sherlock. He went through rituals that didn’t even require thinking, wondering if maybe Sherlock was that daft and hadn’t even noticed. Maybe his natural scent hadn’t yet come through. 

Pondering this, he didn’t hear Sherlock get up, and when he turned around, John was met with Sherlock’s chest. “Oh, sorry,” he said quickly, the two mugs splashing against his chest. John mighted have noted that had he not been looking at Sherlock’s face. He watched his nostrils flare, eyes widening as the smell assaulted his senses. John suspected it was in reaction to his scent and not the tea, which was pretty damn good on a normal day.

“Tea?” he offered, trying not to be smug.  _Notice me, notice me_ , it felt like he was saying. A splash of the tea had landed on Sherlock’s collarbone. John swiped his thumb across his skin, ignoring the slight jerk Sherlock gave in reaction, and smiled. 

 Sherlock took the mug and left the room without comment. 

That was fine. John had all day.

* * *

All day became a few hours when they went to give statements and confirm things for a previous case, and then John went shopping. When he returned, bringing with him London’s air and bags full of groceries, Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

John put away them away and called for Sherlock, but he received no answer. He tried the door to Sherlock’s room, found it locked, and then knocked a couple of times. “Sherlock?” 

After maybe nearly 30 seconds, his muffled answer, “Sleeping,” echoed through the door. 

John sighed and return to watching Telly. He had a few weeks until his heat; Sherlock wouldn’t remain obvious forever. He’d wonder and then say something snide or curious. John would just have to show him what he was missing.

* * *

After two more days with radio silence concerning John’s scent, he decided that something pushing might actually be necessary. Hell, even Anderson had noted the scent on him. When he made a comment that seemed sincere, John was barely declining before Sherlock snapped something about the body and pulled him away by the arm. John liked to think it was because Anderson had honest-to-God smiled at him, and it was actually quite handsome. 

Sherlock appeared to be in a terrible mood for the rest of the day, but didn’t say anything about him or the changes in those around him. Even Lestrade gave him a second, curious eye. 

“Sherlock,” John said the next morning of the third day. His own scent had taken over the flat by now, and while Sherlock should be used to it, he shouldn’t—or John hadn’t expected him to—have ignored the fact. 

Spotting Sherlock looking at some case files by the sofa, John sat down next to him, one arm slung around the back of the sofa. “You don’t have anything planned in two and a half weeks, do you?” He leaned in, pleased to note that Sherlock’s nostrils flared and his lips twisted quite obviously.

Sherlock glanced up from the file he was pouring over and he didn’t speak until he had looked back down. “No; nothing has come up. Murderers must be having their annual birthday parties.” He sounded bored by the prospect. 

“Then you won’t be… busy?”

Sherlock squinted at John. “No.” 

“Oh.” It was obvious to the simplest fool that John meant something by his interruption, but he wasn’t going to waste time mentioning it. He wanted Sherlock to come to him of his own free will. 

Over the next few days, he gave hints. Hints he thought were subtle, even for Sherlock. “Do you think bananas would still be fresh in two weeks?” he asked one morning, and then later inquired about the helpful properties of fruits and vegetables. Sherlock didn’t seem to largely care, but answered with calculated slowness, obviously trying to suss John out. There were instances where he looked as if he was about to ask, but then refrained. 

Meanwhile, John’s scent was still changing. It was a delicate, slow process. 

Along with eating a large amount of food, perpetually hungry, as heat warranted, John began sleeping more. He dozed off during cab rides and slept in longer during the night, waking up tousled and, he might add, pretty damn fuckable. Sherlock made no comment, but when John was lounging, disheveled and sleepy, he could practically feel the alpha in Sherlock perk its head. On more than one occasion he heard one of Sherlock’s pencils snap from the tension, muted cursing marking his frustration.

It was a bit lovely. With Sherlock’s scent permeating throughout the flat, John hardly had to fantasize when he had the usual solicitous wank. 

And other than to observe on his increased sleep and eating habits, Sherlock had still yet to make a comment on all of the happenings.  

When he finally did, it went a bit like this: 

“You’ve eaten your third banana today,” Sherlock observed, taking a sip of tea. He seemed increasingly nervous. “You must be engorged on potassium by this point. Fancy yourself a yellow fruit, John?”

John chuckled. “Oh, you know. It’s that time, so I can’t really help it.” He paused and on receiving no response, continued. “Heat’s a bitch at these times. Hungry and sleepy all day  before we go into a rut.” 

Still quiet. John turned and found Sherlock was staring at him unblinkingly; when they met eyes, he moved back into the kitchen, whatever he was feeling locked behind an empty mask. Not long after that Sherlock grabbed his papers and tea and stormed into his room. 

John huffed a sigh and sank down into his chair. It was definitely working, but perhaps he was being  _too_  subtle. Fancy that; wearing his natural, attractive scent, picking up not one alpha, and asking if he was busy when his heat was to begin, for Christ’s sake, was too subtle. And because John didn’t particularly feel like waiting until the day of his heat to get this done, maybe a change in tactical advance was necessary.

A niggling part of his mind helpfully suggested Sherlock simply didn’t want him, but John was studiously ignoring that part. 

The next day was luckily a case day. It gave John a little bit of time to think about his plan of action and how one might go about gauging interest without outright asking ‘hey, Sherlock, want to spend three days fucking me two ways to Sunday?” Sherlock was occupied with the body Lestrade had previously shown him, but ignored the paperwork he now tried to shove in his face. 

“I’ll take care of it,” John said, taking it from the man. Police procedure was the dull part of things.

“Thanks. They’ve been really cracking down on how our consultant operates as of late. Sherlock’s been a little edgy, too, which isn’t any help.” At John’s look. “Well, more than usual. He’s definitely acting a little more Alpha. Have you—are you two…?

“Are we…?” John was only half paying attention, glancing over the documents when he finally looked up and caught Lestrade’s gaze. He blanched. “Oh. God, no. Well, I wouldn’t mind, but… you know Sherlock; he’s—well he’s very…”

“Difficult?” Lestrade clapped John on the shoulder and smiled. “I’ll just say good luck to you. You’ll need it with him.” 

They shared a chuckle. “Sherlock’s.. quite something,” John agreed. Lestrade’s hand was still on his shoulder, fingers warm. It registered in John that he was to go into heat in a week and didn’t have a partner. Just a partner he wanted. And Lestr- _Greg_ had a rather disarming smile. 

Lestrade leaned closer, his scent, alpha and primal, filling John’s sensitive nose. It was too bad he was taken because John wouldn’t mind someone like Greg. He  _really_ wouldn’t mind.

“John!” Sherlock’s aggressive bark sliced through the tension, and Lestrade’s back straightened. 

“Are you quite finished flirting? I know where our next destination lies.” His eyes flickered between them, briefly landing on Lestrade’s hand which now slipped off John’s shoulder. Was John imagining the twitch of his lip? 

He stepped away from Lestrade and towards Sherlock, who relaxed marginally and took his forearm, tugging him towards Lestrade’s police vehicle. 

“Hurry, Lestrade!”

Sitting next to Sherlock in the car was perhaps worse than it had been before. It might have been Lestrade’s slight threat, but he silently insisted on sitting in the middle of the vehicle pressed against John. This close to heat, John wanted nothing more than to rub his face into Sherlock’s shoulder. That though, as of yet, was an impossibility.

That didn’t exclude his own brand of teasing. John brushed his fingers inquisitively over the glands on his neck, which would be pumping very few hormones at this stage, but still smell delectable. John stared at his finger and turned to his flatmate. “Sherlock?” When he gave John his attention, John bared his neck. He heard Sherlock’s breath hitch.

“Do I have anything on my neck? I think I may have a little brain splatter there.” He bit his lip to keep from grinning as Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“Very funny. Even if the victim had suddenly decided to blow itself to bits, the trajectory would not have been your throat, standing no less than six feet away.” He didn’t sound amused. He seemed to hover between moving forward and refusing before he finally inspected John’s neck, close enough that his scent’s potency would be at its greatest. 

John bent it further. 

“Nothing?” If he sounded a little breathless, who was he to blame? Sherlock pulled back swiftly and turned away, fingers tight in his lap. 

“You are clean.” 

Was it wrong of John to cheer at the unsteadiness of his voice? 

So he obviously found John attractive, but he hadn’t done anything. Was it hesitance, or did he not realise John was available? Impossible. Sherlock would immediately notice his ploy. _And_  he had played along.  

John frowned into the window.

Despite Lestrade’s needling, Sherlock had refused to tell them why they were coming here to some old shop in the worse part of town. It was only when Lestrade threatened to turn around that Sherlock admitted he thought their perpetrator may have worked there. 

He broke into shop the easily—it would actually be accurate to say it was open. With only a few harsh twists and jerks the lock practically fell off. They tumbled inside, only to be met with their would-be killer. 

Everyone froze. Sherlock certainly hadn’t expected him to return home with the recent murder. It sometimes slipped his mind that some criminals were too stupid to be dealt with. 

Of course, deal with it they must. In seconds the killer had swiped something off of his desk and grabbed at the nearest person. Natural John was chosen, the omega about to go into heat. An arm was wrapped around his neck and the knife pressed against his throat. The only truly worse thing he could imagine was the killer being aroused. A part of John breathed easier to feel that he was neither, indeed, an alpha nor aroused. 

John choked for a mere second in his hold. Honestly, he was a soldier and knew how to throw a wannabe. 

This, however, did not seem to stop Sherlock. 

John wasn’t sure if it was Sherlock or hormones, but his eyes blazed and he was storming wildly for them both despite obvious threats from the…Beta? 

All he knew was that Lestrade was reaching wildly for Sherlock, shouting, and Sherlock pulsed towards John with anger. “Get your filthy hands off of him!” 

It was rather sweet, in retrospect. Alpha trying to protect Omega. 

Too damn bad John didn’t need protecting. 

The beta behind him trembled briefly; John took that moment to rip his frankly terrible hold away and then swung him around, one hand twisting his arm and the other clamping on his throat. 

Energy and adrenaline pumped through his system, clashing with hormones and making it so his hands shook against the man’s body.

Sherlock and Lestrade simply stared.

“A little help?!” 

They scrambled to obey. Sherlock nearly tripped, eyes locked on John. 

* * *

Back at Baker Street, John was ready to sleep some more. He’d been drowsy the whole way home, and had dozed on Sherlock’s shoulder (who again sat suspiciously close to him). For a moment John had sworn he felt a pair of lips brush his forehead, and then next they were at Baker Street. Sherlock woke John, berating at him for falling asleep. 

John lagged a fair bit behind as they ascended the stairs. God, he was tired. Running around wasn’t exactly recommended for heat week, especially for someone as old as he was. 

He slumped in his chair, already half asleep, when he heard the slip of Sherlock’s scarf being unraveled and his deep baritone.

“If you’re going to be dead to the world please refrain from doing it here. Your hormones have been filling up the flat enough already.” 

John blinked blearily at the television, something about his speech niggling at his mind. 

Ah. That was the first time Sherlock had actually spoken up about his heat. “Sherlock, we need—I’d like to talk to you. About this.” He scrubbed his face and stood up, facing a rather constipated Holmes. “What, why do you look like that?”

“You wish to talk about your heat, yes?”

He binked. “Yeah, actually. I was, well I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m—”

“About to go into heat, yes.” Sherlock’s face was pinched. “And you wish to do it with me. The answer is a no.” 

John’s heart plummeted. “Wait, what? I mean, why. If you don’t mind me asking.”

“It would be unwise.” Sherlock hung his scarf and then proceeded to throw his coat on the sofa. John resisted picking it up and inhaling the heady scent it would leave off. 

“Wait, so you would like to…? Then why?”

“I—that is not what I said.” 

“You said. You said it would be unwise.” John crossed his arms. “You’ve obviously been interested, at least from a biological point of view. I don’t see what’s wrong with. You know.” 

Sherlock threw him a look and flopped down onto sofa. “Everything, John. It would be unwise.” 

“Tell me why. I like you, you obviously like and seem to be attracted to me.”

“It’s not—” Sherlock scrubbed his fingers through his curly hair. “I wouldn’t be able to control myself, John.” 

“Control— Sherlock, I thought that was, you know, the point?” John stayed standing, brows furrowed. 

“I’m not—” Sherlock was at a strange loss for words. “I have never been with an omega. Are you aware that the chances that an alpha will become violent during its first rut is 20% more likely?”

“Sherlock, are you listening to yourself?” John chuckled. “You’re not some random alpha. I don’t believe for a second that you would be one of those types, and even if you were a little rough, our bodies are built that way. I think I could handle you.” 

John took the necessary steps in order to crowd Sherlock’s space. He watched him tense, fingers kneading into his own thigh. He did not protest the lack of distance between the two of them, so John took the initiative. He climbed onto the sofa and straddled Sherlock’s lap, arms pressed on either side of his head. 

He bared his neck, presenting himself for the alpha in Sherlock to take, to claim.

Sherlock’s hands settled on his hips, and John could feel his thighs shaking under him, muscles clenched so tight that it must hurt. 

“I won’t bite,” John joked, lowering his head in another act of submission. Sherlock vibrated underneath him, fingers digging into his pelvic bone. 

“John,” he spit out, furious. 

Suddenly John was flipped, his breath leaving him as Sherlock slammed him into the sofa, breathing heavily above him. His cheeks were flushed with rage and arousal. He pressed one knee in between John’s thighs and forced John’s hands above his head, holding him taut. 

“Do not test me,” he ground out, pressing his nose against John’s throat. The sharp angles of his body smoothed out, his legs sliding sensually alongside John’s until they slotted together. His hold relaxed slightly, and he was inhaling the addictive scent of ripe Omega, already damp and ready for a good fuck. 

John shuddered underneath Sherlock, mind growing foggy with an alpha pressed so close. He could feel his erection; hot, big. It was heaven.

And then with great suddenness Sherlock tore himself off, snatching his scarf and coat from the sofa and the doorway. “I’m leaving.” 

John, still flush and limp, pushed himself up enough to watch Sherlock. “Wait, you’re leaving?” 

“Yes. I told you it would be unwise. I thought I could resist your temptation, or you would find an alpha.” He glanced at John. “One is unacceptable. I am mistaken about the former.” 

“Sherlock, I don’t understand why you’re so reluctant. Do you think it would change things?”

“No.”

“Then why—” 

“Because!” Sherlock roared, taking the few steps necessary to bring him to John. He watched his Omega flinch the slightest bit from his voice, from his approach. 

“If I had you, I could not stop myself from hurting you.” 

“You won’t hurt me.” John sounded so sure of himself it made Sherlock want to laugh. 

So he did. Darkly, quietly. “You have so much faith in the unpredictable, animalistic nature of alphas. Do you know what I want to do to you?” He allowed his gaze to rake across John’s figure, hunger in his eyes. A hunger that would not be sated until he had broken the toy with which he played.

“I trust you. Trust  _me_.” John’s mouth was set in a thin line of discontent, trying so hard to prove that he could handle Sherlock. 

John was an omega. He didn't understand: Sherlock was an alpha.

He left the flat. 

* * *

John stayed on the sofa for another ten minutes, trying to calm himself down. 

Sherlock had been, no other word for it, possessive. His gaze was harsh and unabashed, but John had little doubt that Sherlock had meant it that way. He wanted him. 

And Jesus fuck did John want Sherlock. 

He pressed the heel of his hand to his cock, rubbing briefly. It felt maddening good, and he pressed his whole hand over the length, just letting it twitch against his palm, warm and heavy. He didn’t want to do this here, when Sherlock had just gone and rejected him, but he couldn’t quite stop himself. 

John bit his lip as he slipped his thumb over the tip, already a bit damp. Little maddening circles, intended to provide the perfect torture. John shifted his hips so he could spread his legs. He felt a few droplets of fluid run down his thigh. Why was that happening? He shouldn’t be in heat—let alone that wet—for a while. 

He wrapped his hand around his cock and squeezed it firmly, inducing a soft moan. Oh yes, that was good. He breathed into his forearm and unzipped his pants; the gentle teases had become more irritating and less satisfying. 

John pulled himself out and watched his hands move on their own, stroking with quick efficiency. At length he wrapped both hands around the base and thrust into his fist, heels digging into the sofa cushions. 

Something wasn’t right. It couldn’t have come early, could it? 

John felt a hot fluid gush and grit his teeth against the itch. Christ, he needed, he needed—

With a whine that sounded desperate even to his own ears, John ripped off his trousers and pants, struggling briefly while grappling with his shoes and the fabric. When he was naked, he shoved two fingers unceremoniously inside of himself. It was a little painful, a little rough, but he felt wet heat squelch, gasping as he tried to reach with his too short fingers. 

Oh Christ, this was heat, wasn’t it. Being subject to unrestrained alpha hormones day in and day out must have made it come early. 

His hands were becoming slippery. He searched for his prostate, needing some sort of relief, anything. He imagined that Sherlock was hovering above him, one hand laid possessively along his hip, the other sliding down his crack of his arse to finger John roughly, just as he did himself right then. John’s groan was muffled.

He had toys in his room that he kept for emergencies, but he didn’t know if he could move. His thighs shook with the effort of the position, and he couldn’t seem to care that he was soaking the sofa, nor that anyone could come inside and see him like this. 

* * *

Mycroft sighed. His younger brother would very well be the cause of premature balding. 

He had stormed into Mycroft’s home, raving about that omega of his, John, and how he literally had no idea as to the meaning of his intentions. Mycroft had just finished a session with Lestrade, who was now dressed and still in his drop. Mycroft was seated on the sofa, mercifully fully dressed, stroking Greg’s hair from where he rested his head in Mycroft’s lap. The rope burns on his wrist were a lovely mark; he brushed them fondly.

“You are disgusting.”

Sherlock’s voice broke through the veil. Mycroft did not deign to look up. 

“You are lucky I was gracious enough to let you stay. Why are you running away from your omega during his heat in the first place, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock watched Mycroft stroke Lestrade’s cheek, something in his heart clenching in an ugly direction. “John is not my omega, nor will he be.” 

“And why is that?”

Mycroft and his incessant questions!

“Because! you know how dangerous alphas may be in a rut. John is not like you, Mycroft—most people aren’t—nor is he an alpha whose very nature pertains to rough treatment by his omega.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow in question. “Where have you gotten your information? Alphas are not beasts, and although some become violent during heat, that is towards unaccustomed or younger omegas. You are certainly accustomed to John Watson, who is hardly a young beauty.” 

Lestrade was stirring, so Mycroft sat him up and rubbed his knuckles with one thumb, ignoring Sherlock as he talked his alpha back up with gentle words and soft praise. 

Sherlock looked away from the private moment. “I have seen and heard enough. Why should I endanger John? And it would change things. We cannot go back after…”

“After you make the bond you’ve been expecting for ages?” Lestrade spoke up suddenly, coming to himself fully. He looked tired but well-sated, leaning his head on Mycroft’s shoulder. “ _You’re_  crazy if you think John is anything but crazy for you. He’ll probably ask you for the ceremony as soon as it’s done.”

Mycroft smiled at his mate. “While it may not be so drastic, Dr. Watson has offered a time that is precious to many. He does not find an alpha easily; only ones he trusts, from my observations. You should return before your chances are gone.”

Both voices held proof that maybe it could work with John, but he couldn’t. It was— Sherlock was afraid. He didn’t know what was going to happen and he was afraid. “I still have nearly a week until his heat is triggered,” he added as his argument against returning. 

“Dunno, Mycroft’s first heat was a lot earlier, so it’s to be expected. ‘spec—” he still seemed a little tongue tied, leaning sleepily on Mycroft. 

“Especially if an omega surrounds himself in hormones from a potent alpha,” Mycroft smoothly finished, his finger trailing along Lestrade’s jaw. He leaned down for a chaste, gentle kiss.

Sherlock’s nose scrunched a little in disgust at his brother being intimate with anyone, but he couldn’t deny the slow burn of envy at how comfortable they seemed, so at ease, finishing each other’s sentences.

“Are you saying John might be in heat  _now?”_

A yawn. “No, but he could be close, and I bet you left him alone. Are your windows open? Is John— _should_ John be worried?” 

Sherlock felt something hard settle in his gut. It very well may have been fear. 

* * *

John knew what to expect. But knowing what to expect didn’t make him any less prepared. 

A fire was ignited in his belly now, and it was only burning hotter and brighter, and he couldn’t  _find_  relief. He couldn’t  _help_  but think his fingers were not enough, that he needed more—but Sherlock wasn’t there and he didn’t  _want_  the toys in his bedroom. He tried to care that he could feel the cushions were soaked now, damp against his thighs.

John couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this desperate. If he didn’t have something in him now he felt as if was going to die _._  Maybe because he’d had alphas before who pressed into him as soon as he cried out, writhing and wet.  


He grabbed his cock and pumped it, the pleasure almost perfunctory. But it felt good, like he was rubbing hard against an itch. So he kept doing it, gasping, brushing the tip and the glans, anything to make himself come and get some relief. 

“Bloody Christ, that’s—” and he did come then, in hard spurts against his stomach that made him clench around his fingers. He almost sobbed at how bloody  _good_  it felt, but it only lasted a moment, just a wisp of pleasure when he needed. He wanted Sherlock there, his knot. He wanted him to barrel in and slide inside, splitting him wide, splitting him  _open—_  

“God,” John sobbed. He could smell Sherlock; he was everywhere: in the pillows, in the sheets, the air. John flipped onto his stomach, hardly noticing when one leg slipped off of the sofa. He pressed his face into the rough fabric, cheek scraping the fibers, inhaling Sherlock’s scent; he rubbed himself on the couch and it hurt a bit, but he didn’t care because _fuck_ , he  _wanted._  

With every inhale the scent seemed to grow stronger. Something egged at John’s mind, but he ignored this in favor of ripping his shirt off and rubbing himself on the couch. It felt good on his nipples, so John licked his fingers and pinched one, imagining that they were Sherlock’s fingers. 

Just like that, the door burst open. John jumped and for a brief moment he felt shame—someone had  _seen_  him—but then the scent registered. Sherlock. “Fuck,” he gasped, inarticulate as Sherlock’s smell filled the room. 

Sherlock was panting, his face flushed, eyes going wide at the sight before him. John let out a wrecked moan and Sherlock sprang forward, crowding John’s space. He ran his hands ran over John’s face, shoulders, and back; he brushed them on every part of the Omega, revelling in the chance to touch.

“John,” he sound choked. John was momentarily sated by the possessive touches, but when Sherlock’s hands gravitated towards his arse and slipped down his wet crack, he spread his legs and let out a sound that was not quite a sob, not quite a whimper. “John, I—”

“Oh god.  _Oh—_  Sherlock, don’t. I can’t believe- I swear if you’re not going to fuck me I’m going to kill- kill-” his words shattered as Sherlock pressed his fingers inside of him, long violinist hands working him like a finely tuned instrument. John raised his hips and felt Sherlock’s fingers come back wet. He watched him lick them, saw his eyes go dark and dangerous. 

John’s eyes locked onto the outline of Sherlock’s cock. He let out a sound of pure need. 

“Sherlock,” he repeated.

Sherlock stared at John, his body humming, caught between running away from dangerous possibilities and embracing them heatedly. He needed to control himself.

Without meaning to he met John’s eyes, wild with lust and want. He watched him lick his lips, slow and deliberate, the lower one red from being bitten repeatedly, and Sherlock let out a choked sound, his resistance snapping.

He lurched forward and kissed John, molding their mouths together fiercely. With a muffled groan John buried his fingers in dark curls, grinding down on his fingers. 

It was good; it was  _amazing_ , but it wasn’t enough. John opened his mouth to say something, but only a whine escaped. It didn’t matter anyway, because Sherlock’s clothed prick was brushing the crack of his arse, heavy and hot. 

“I swear, Sherlock.” He kissed him again, licking angrily at his teeth. “I don’t know where you’ve been but if you think you can  _wait—_ ” 

He felt lips against his ear, and hands were yanking off his shirt. “Mine,” was growled and if that wasn’t the most beautiful thing John had heard. 

Sweet relief. “Yours, yes. yours.” He arched and pressed his cheek to Sherlock’s jaw. “Put your big cock in me and finish the job. Make me yours.” He pressed backwards and felt Sherlock shudder, his breath stuttering. The sound of his belt coming off made the blood rush in John’s ears. 

Sherlock was gone for a moment and then he was back, decidedly less dressed. 

Hands roughly pulled him into position, turning him so that he faced Sherlock. The look on his face was possessive. It was gorgeous. 

“I should have never left you. It was a mistake. One I won’t be making in the future.” John would have agreed, but Sherlock had pushed his cock between his cheeks, rendering him a puddle of want. 

“Oh God. Oh Christ finally yes Sherlock.” John gripped his own hair tightly with one hand, almost pulling it, while the other skittered desperately along the edge of the sofa, searching for a handhold.

“All- all right?” Sherlock stuttered with each inching of his hips, hands planting on either side of John, who nodded. 

“Yes,” he rasped, giving a hitching sob. “I think I’m about to come.”

“You- you’re not hurt then?” Sherlock forced the words, stilling his hips as John make a soft sound of protest. 

“Oh God, no. Keep going. Don’t you  _dare_  stop.”

Sherlock was barely halfway and John’s spine was arching in a familiar way, his cock lying flushed and stiff on his belly. Sherlock pulled back, briefly rubbing the head back and forth over John’s hole, stimulating his prostate. John’s head flew back, nails digging crescents into Sherlock’s forearms.

“Yes,” he panted. “Oh God  _yes_.”  

He cried helplessly and pulsed around Sherlock’s cock, who gave into his instincts and pressed into John roughly, fucking him through his orgasm. He didn’t stop, to John’s instructions, because as expected, John was starting to writhe again, his cock filling out and growing hard. He could feel himself ramping up for another orgasm, and while they felt amazing, he wanted Sherlock to knot. He wanted it more than anything. 

“Do it, Sherlock, please.” 

“I- I don’t wish to hurt you.” Sherlock was working himself into John even harder, the sweet slide pushing him past all resistance, grazing his inner vaginal entrance. John wailed through another orgasm when Sherlock took hold on his prick, quivering long after. 

“You won’t- oh Christ you couldn’t. Please Sherlock. It will feel so amazing. You won’t hurt me. I can take it.” 

Sherlock’s thrusts were tentative again, as if he wasn’t sure John wasn’t lying, but then he started to grow more confident, hands pressing harder into John’s hips. John didn’t mind the bruises that he could feel forming, or the inevitable strain from the position on a sofa. All he cared about was the glide of Sherlock’s cock, how the knot just barely caught his rim with every thrust. 

“Bloody— yes.  _Yes_.” John could feel it swelling outside of him, just shy of entering his stretched hole. “Harder.” 

Sherlock complied, moaning deep in his chest. “John,” he growled. He freed his hands and let them slide along his thighs and stomach; he twisted John’s nipples and watched as he yelped, cock twitching decisively. 

“You want to come so badly, don’t you.” He sounded almost wondrous. “You’ve come twice already,” he observed. John nodded, his face flushed as red as his cock.  

“Yes, fuck, I—” Oh. He could feel Sherlock enter him now, the knot almost slipping past, painfully good, but then Sherlock pulled back. 

“Yes. It’s because of me. You want my knot. Plugging you up until you can hardly—” he stuttered, face pinching like he was about to come. “—hardly move. You’ve been wanting this for ages and I’ve denied you.” 

John dug his fingernails into Sherlock’s shoulders, letting out hitching little sobs against the stretch of Sherlock’s knot. “Fucking give-  _give_  it to me. Knot me you bas—” he was cut off as Sherlock’s knot pushed past. John stilled as it grew and grew, achingly large. 

“Take it,” he purred. Then, lower: “Make us a baby, John.” 

“Oh Jesus, oh  _fuck_. I’m—” he struggled to breathe, yanking at his own hair in desperation. “I’m  _coming._ ” John’s toes curled as his orgasm rammed through him, bone-crushing and earth shattering; possibly the best one he’d experienced in a long time, lasting for ages. He was only aware of the sobbing noises he made when Sherlock nuzzled his throat, soothing him with his tongue.

“ _John_.” He felt Sherlock twitch and grow impossibly harder as he came, a burst of wetness inside of John. He could feel Sherlock biting his shoulder now, forming words against his scar, hands petting him everywhere he could reach, his orgasm shaking through him. It was _marvelous_. The entire situation was brilliant. He had Sherlock.

When he had caught his breath and wasn’t in danger of falling off the sofa, John pressed a sleepy kiss into Sherlock’s hair. The alpha stiffened and then drew back, looking at John with wild eyes. 

“John’s I’m- I apologize.” 

“Hm?” John really hoped he wasn’t having a crisis because he literally could not give a single fuck at this point. He felt so positively well-shagged that Sherlock’s trembling voice hardly roused him.

I- I’ve hurt you.” He sounded aghast.

“Oh?” He glanced down. “Just a few bruises. They’ll keep for a while,” he chuckled. When Sherlock failed to respond, John frowned. 

“Are you alright with this? I mean, you came in so suddenly…”

“What? No, of course not. It was my intention to take you when I…never mind that.” Sherlock shivered as he came again. “I don’t like the thought of hurting you.” 

“Is that what you’re worried about? I told you Sherlock, you won’t hurt me. There might be a few bruises, but I’m not made of glass. Besides, you should see your back.” He was fairly certain he’d hooked his claws into Sherlock when he was in the thick of it.

Sherlock looked indignant. “This isn’t a joke. I could seriously harm you.“ 

“Could you now.” John reached up and pinched him. Hard. 

“Ow! John, I hardly think that proves anything.” 

“Well I think the matter is settled. You can’t—no, you  _wouldn’t_  hurt me.”

“You can’t be certain of that!” 

“Then why did you come back?” Sherlock opened his mouth and then promptly closed it. 

“I didn’t like the thought of you alone.” 

“Because you care about me.” 

“I…yes.” 

“Good. Listen to me; I trust you. I just need you to trust me, alright? Trust yourself. You would never injure me.” 

Sherlock was indecisive, but it was hardly the time to argue. Not yet. “…Very well. I apologize in advance for the bruises.” Sherlock brushed his thumb along John’s cheekbone.

John smiled and pulled Sherlock down for a kiss, moaning softly when it caused Sherlock to move inside him. Sherlock did it again, rocking his hips as well as his position would allow. 

“Is that good?”

John nodded furtively, biting his lower lip. “Very good, yes. Keep- keep- like that.” Sherlock kept on nudging his prostate, slowly working him into a state of arousal. John’s pheromones began to saturate the air. He grabbed his prick and stroked himself slowly, enjoying the way Sherlock looked at him. 

Sherlock kept moving his hips and glanced down between them, interminably glad he had not done so before. It would have undone him to see them joined so completely. He shivered and watched John slowly come apart beneath him, biting his lip in an obvious attempt to keep quiet. 

Something ugly curled in his chest and he kissed John’s soft, red lips. 

“Don’t hold it back,” he said lasciviously, nipping John’s lower lip. John shook his head but let the moans spill from his mouth, his fingers scraping up and down Sherlock’s arms. 

Sherlock joined John and wrapped his arm around his cock, watching in fascination as he threw his head back. “Fuck,” John swore, thrashing weakly. Sherlock dragged his fingers along the shaft and then put them in his mouth, sucking on them. When suitably wet he pressed them to the tip of John’s cock and rubbed them into the slit. He was rewarded when John swore and jerked, prick twitching, throbbing sweetly. 

“ _God_ , you’ll kill me,” John rasped, but when Sherlock pulled his hand back John was forcing his hand back into place, rocking up into his grip. 

“There could be worse deaths,” he chuckled, hissing when he came  _again_. How long were they to be together? The knot felt like it was shrinking, but he couldn’t be sure.

John didn’t seem to care, mouth agape as focused completely on the pleasure, arching familiarly when it became obvious he was about to come.

“Now,  _now_. I—” barely anything came of it, but John looked wrecked, small sounds of distress escaping him. Sherlock rested their foreheads together and stroked him through it, breathing words of possession and praise. 

John smiled at that. He looked as if he could fall asleep at any moment now, sagging into the sofa. Heat was really exhausting when it wasn’t bloody amazing. 

Sherlock buried his face against John’s throat and prayed that things would be all right. He did not— _would_  not lose this.

**Author's Note:**

> ~~I hope she liked it.~~


End file.
